Rotunda
by hawkquisitor
Summary: Four brushes cleaned and set to dry later, he broke the silence. "You said Ghilan'nain is your patron."


Skyhold: the sound of bare toes padding lightly across the rotunda.

"_Hahren_," said Lavellan.

"_Da'len_," Solas returned absently, without turning from the drying plaster. Then he remembered his manners. "Inquisitor," he amended, turning to face them more fully. "Forgive me. I was preoccupied."

They shrugged. "It's alright."

"No, not really," he disagreed, but inclined his head. "Please do not touch the fresco. It is still wet. What brings you here?"

Obediently, Lavellan and their curious fingers retreated from the painted silhouette of a wolf. Disaster averted. "Nothing urgent. I'm trying to memorize Skyhold, but every corridor and stairwell looks the same_. _Stone walls and stone stairs and stone ceilings. I've passed your room four times now. I think I'm about to go mad."

"A trial by repetition? One could say the same of trees in the forest," remarked Solas, wryly. "Yet you have little trouble navigating the Hinterlands."

"Oh, I have trouble, _hahren_. I just don't show it. Bad for morale. Well," they rolled their eyes, "human morale. I explained _vallaslin_ to some scouts a few weeks ago and I think some of them are still convinced I'm the reincarnation of _Ghilan'nain. _As if I've a compass built into my ears! Humans and their assumptions..."

Solas snorted, turned away to snatch up his pallet. "You do realize there is the option of commissioning a map." He wandered to the center of the room with his tools, setting aside a worn cloth mottled with colors to be washed. He stacked his books on a corner of the desk, placed his teacup atop the mound, and set to cleaning his brushes in a bowl as Lavellan further inspected his work. A glance at his guest made him satisfied their hands would not wander from where they were clasped fixedly behind their back.

Four brushes cleaned and set to dry later, he broke the silence. "You said _Ghilan'nain_ is your patron."

Lavellan looked at him. "Did I tell you that? I'm surprised you remembered. Mother of the Halla, yes." They paused at the depiction of Haven to touch the fine lines that scrolled over their cheekbones: a halla's horns, rendered on their face in a shade of teal blue that matched their eyes. "Ironic, don't you think?" Then, with a sarcastic edge, "Would you like to plant a tree for remembering something correctly?"

Solas pointedly ignored the latter question.

"I think it appropriate, considering where you now stand. At the head of the Inquisition. Where you lead, they will follow." He looked up from drying a stubborn ram's hair bristle. "Now that you are Inquisitor, should you not call me by name? It would hardly do for one of your stature to use honorifics for persons... subordinate to your position. Though I'm sure they mean little outside the People."

"Subordinate! _You?_" huffed Lavellan, turning completely from the fresco. He saw the lines of their vallaslin shift as their face creased in apparent distaste- or disbelief. Or both. "You must be joking."

"Not only me," he reminded them, patiently. He set the last brush down, cleaned and groomed to dry. "You outrank Seeker Cassandra and the Commander as well, to say nothing of any other member of this operation. Titles are important," said the mage. "It would be wise to acknowledge what yours implies. Though I'm told you are already on a first-name basis with our Ambassador."

"Yes," said Lavellan, frowning, "but _she_ called me by name first, so I call her Josephine also." They pursed their lips. "Ser Cullen... Seeker Cassandra... Sister Nightingale, Leliana. What did that one Free Marcher call you? _Messere Solas?_" A truly inspired recreation of the reaction to smelling a wet mabari crossed the elf's face. "_Hrm_, but no. I understand what you mean, but... You're, just, you know," they said, gesturing vaguely. "No."

"I'm just no?" Solas queried, one eyebrow raised about as high as he was amused. Which was very.

Lavellan pinned him with a look so flat he imagined their ears may have been parallel to the ground for a moment. "No."

"You should consider it. It is important that we address each other as equals now, not as teacher and pupil."

"But aren't we still? Teacher and pupil, I mean."

"I... assumed we had moved past it." Solas blinked. Did they truly wish to maintain that dynamic? To what end? "You know nearly all what I know of the fade, save what I have personally experienced. And even those stories I have obliged you. So no, I do not think you are my pupil any longer, Inquisitor. Though I am flattered you would still consider yourself that." He glanced down at his hands, still stained with various colors. The red would be the last to fade. It was a stubborn pigment, rendered from drakestone. "But that is beside the point. The Inquisition stands for all Thedas, does it not? And you stand for all the Inquisition. _Elvhen_ or otherwise."

"Hm." Lavellan's expression remained unconvinced.

Solas rose from the desk. "Perhaps 'subordinate' was not the right word I should have suggested." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "An adviser would be more accurate. What do you think: 'Official Fade-Rift Adviser to the Inquisition'? 'Consulting Apostate on Matters of the Breach'? My given name has considerably less syllables, however. And is much easier to shout at me during a fight."

Lavellan sighed. "Now you're just being silly."

"No? Maybe something simpler. 'Fade Adviser'? 'Fade-Rift Adviser'?" Solas continued, unperturbed. "I am still technically only a consultant. A volunteer, as it were."

That wet mabari look again. "Well, yes," they said,"but-"

"'Elven Apostate'... No, too generic. 'Rift Mage'? 'Rift Apostate'?"

"_Ha__hren-_ Solas-"

"I have been known to answer to 'You, Mage!' as well, if pressed."

"-_Solas!_"

"Yes? Well, If you _insist_, Inquisitor." The mage sighed, the very picture of being put-upon. "And here I was, warming up to the idea of being called something fanciful. I suppose I shall have to abandon it now."

The shorter elf threw their hands into the air. "_Fenedhis- _Fine! I understand. _Ma nuvenin;_ I will _try._ Alright?" This was followed immediately with an inaudible string of muttering.

"_Ma serannas._"

"Yes, alright. I'll just... I'll have to get used to it. I've become used to seeing you as a mentor. I don't think I could ever think of you as a subordinate," they admitted, turning their eyes to him. "You're more like... You remind me of a Keeper."

All the levity immediately bled from Solas's face. "That is-"

Lavellan grimaced. "Don't. I knew you wouldn't like it."

The mage let his mouth fall shut. Reluctantly. "That is... not unflattering," he attempted, badly.

"Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything."

He fell silent. Lavellan turned back toward the wall. The next part of the mural was still empty, still waiting for the Inquisition's next milestone - it would likely be the outcome of Halamshiral, thought Solas, considering the impending masquerade - but there were guiding lines lightly etched into the partition already. A prediction of future events... with consideration for error.

A heavy exhale followed the end of the existing fresco. "Yes?" asked Solas, recognizing a pursing of lips that betrayed the other elf's wish to speak.

"I just think," said the Inquisitor, eventually, thoughts drawn out slowly as if testing the water, "that Keepers are worth respecting."

Solas gave himself a moment to sift his words for ill sentiments this time, and still couldn't quite manage neutral. "And why is that?" he managed to ask without _completely_ sounding as if he didn't care for the answer.

"They keep you alive," Lavellan deadpanned, catching his tone. Of course they already knew his sentiments on the Dalish. Once discovered it had been a sore subject between them during their first few weeks of necessary companionship. The arrival of a third elf, whose opinion was even more removed from their two, had hardly smoothed things over.

But Sera did not bother trying to speak to him as the Inquisitor did.

"Hmm." The noise that came out of his throat _almost_ didn't sound skeptical. But perhaps Solas gave himself too much credit.

Lavellan retorted, "I mean it. They're older, and more experienced, and generally they give good advice. And they're mages. Good ones, if the ones I've met are any indication. Not that you..." They huffed a little self-condescending laugh. "Guess that's the Dalish in me speaking. Just another ill-informed, mutable opinion. Even though it means I respect you." A sickly green light cast upon Lavellan's face as they scratched absently at their neck with their mark-hand. It flickered briefly, then faded a moment later. They tucked their hand behind their back once more. "But I suppose it means little outside of the... you. Wait.

"To you. Of you? I guess that means little outside of you? I suppose it means little to you. Damn it, I was trying to be clever by repeating what you said earlier. Actually, did you know Sister Nightingale told me that that's a sign that you're trying to be more like someone else? See, that's exactly what I mean." A smile spread over their face, evidently pleased to share the fact. "I do it around you, sometimes. She noticed me doing it to Varric the other day; said it's a 'tell,' it means- Are you laughing?"

"I am not."

He was not. But the shape of his mouth could not lie; it was less a smile than incredulous laughter leashed tight across his face, fighting desperately to be free from the lines worn into his skin. He hid it partially under a palm, but not before a string of chuckles escaped.

_More like someone else. I do it around you. It's a tell, it means-_

Solas knew what it meant. Damn him, he knew what it meant. He would have to be more careful. From now on-

The tiny elf glared. "_Samahl su shemsahlin; nadasnan mahvir, hahre-_ Solas."_  
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An old adage, butchered by ages of abbreviation and language lost. And yet. "_Ma tu_ emma dar_eth__'din?__ Emma vhenanin ir abelas, _Inquisitor_. _I'm hurt."

"'_Vhenanin'?__"_ Lavellan snorted, but laughed. "You're so dramatic, no matter what you let everyone else think. Do you talk like that to your friends in the fade? Or is that just the nature of the language? Can you-"

A sharp rap on wood interrupted them, chased by the creak of ages-old hinges.

Varric's head and shoulder appeared through the doorway that separated his and Solas's spaces. "Sorry to interrupt... whatever's going on here." He grinned. "Cassandra wants to see you in the War Room, your Inquisitorialness. Told me to _make it quick, you ridiculous dwarf_."

A long breath of resigned air. "You'll have to escort me, Varric. I've no hope of finding it alone."

"It's... just across the hall?"

"But _which door is it?_"

"_Dareth shiral_," said Solas, by way of goodbye.

Lavellan scowled. "Fine, dismiss me. I hope Sister Nightingale's crows sit over you. I'll find this room again. It's the only one I can actually find and even that's only because Varric stands in front of the damned door. Creators help me."

"Creators," he repeated, dully, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice even as he- he smiled. He couldn't help himself. "All save _Ghilan'nain_, I assume."

"Yes. Ironic." There was a glint in the Inquisitor's eye as they left, rogue elf trailing behind rogue dwarf. A spark of mirth. His doing. "We'll talk later."

Fade take him. There was a danger here.

"Goodbye."

Alone again, Solas looked down at his hands. Distantly above him, he heard a murder of the Inquisition crows take flight. His brushes dried in a straight line upon his desk. His tea was cold, his books disheveled. The paint upon the walls would be dry enough to add another layer in a few hours.

The Inquisitor would be back before then. They would ask to see his brushes, sift through his reading, bring him tea, try to smudge his paint before it could set. Make conversation. Speak with a wooden tongue in a language they only half-knew, with an impertinently glib expression. Make him laugh.

He would have to be more careful.


End file.
